


Before the Night Will End

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 01:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1207072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's glad that he can give him this comfort. (Coda fic for 1x03)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Night Will End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "afterglow". I don't know why I'm obsessing over this post 1x03 thing, but here have yet another fic about it. (Spoiler alert: I totally know why I'm obsessing over it - it's because I love hurt/comfort, welp.)

It’s dusk now, the sinking sunset casting its soft and familiar glow – the last wisps of daylight. He likes that kind of light, really, the way it saturates a kind of warm gold, catches off the curves and shadows around him – the jut of Porthos’ hip, the small crooked angle of his elbow as he holds Aramis close, as he pushes into Aramis, searching – the right spot, the right movement – and he likes the way the light catches in his own hair whenever he catches sight of himself in the old mirror hanging on the wall of his apartment. He likes the way the light brushes over Porthos’ arms, thick and warm and heavy on his back, his entire body flushed as they move together. Aramis likes that sweet friction, the way he can lift his legs just so, closing the space between them tighter – and he likes the kind of quiet of it, when Porthos isn’t so impatient and will take his time because he knows that’s how Aramis likes it – the kind of movement that comes between long-time friends, who’ve long since learned the contours and curves of one another, understand with a look what the other wants, and give it to him—

Porthos’ moves against him, and it skirts on the edge of pain. Aramis focuses on Porthos’ kisses and touches, a distraction from the ache. He knows he can handle this much, and more really, and there’s a reassurance in knowing that he can handle it, knowing that his friend needs some kind of release and happy to be the one to give it to him. He urges Porthos in deeper with his heels, settling them hard against the small of his back. He’s well-acquainted enough with his body to know how to relax, to move through it, and the stretch and fullness is something he likes even if he doesn’t always indulge on this end of things. ( _So to speak_ – and he can’t help but hold back a laugh at the thought.) 

Aramis likes the sounds Porthos makes – nothing that’s needlessly loud, but the deep, rumbling quality of his laugh is always enough to get him to laugh in turn, and there’s something nice about laughing even when he feels over-full, feels as if the slow, steady roll of his hips will drive him into insanity – knows how badly Porthos wants to know, knows how badly Porthos is attempting to do as he likes it. He likes to hear those gasps, the rumbling stumble of a half-hitched moan, a note from out of the bottom of his throat that pushes up. 

Porthos doesn’t laugh now, his mind still too heavy from the events of the past day, and he wishes there was a way to smooth it from him, to touch at the new scar still knitting over his shoulder – another that he’s formed for him – but he just holds to him and lets Porthos move, doesn’t protest or chide even when the pace speeds up a little too fast and he feels the sparks of pain – a dull ache. Porthos’ lips are pressed to his throat and Aramis obediently tilts his head back, relishes in the feel of lips and teeth and tongue over the column of his neck. 

The sunlight is going pale now, and Aramis blinks his eyes to the ceiling as a kiss against his adams apple startles him and he swallows instinctively, thinks maybe he feels the curve of a smile against his pulse-point. The movements between them turn shameless, fervent, because Aramis is letting his mind drift, his fingers curling tight into the back of Porthos’ neck as Porthos rocks against him. Porthos’ hips move with a fluidity that Aramis always enjoys. 

Perhaps he’s being gentler than he normally would be, and he touches at Porthos’ neck and back and shoulder, light touches, mindful of the wound still there as Porthos presses down closer to him, ducking his head against the attention and nuzzling into his neck, his hair scratchy and itching against Aramis’ skin so that he has to chuckle, smoothing his fingertips soothingly over his shoulders. It’s something to counterbalance the quicker waves of Porthos’ hips against him, and he slides his leg down over one hip, curls around his thighs and sits there comfortably, rocking up to meet Porthos. 

“You’re getting impatient,” he teases, and smiles more when he hears Porthos snort and snaps his hips up in a way that causes Aramis’ breath to hitch despite himself. 

Porthos grunts a little as he moves, but seems to recognize the speed of his movements and forces himself to slow down again, the cant of his hips slower now, and Aramis clenches around him experimentally, just to see his reaction – as if he doesn’t already know it – and Porthos sucks in a sharp inhale that makes Aramis grin. 

“Perhaps I’m impatient?” Aramis says more than asks, conversationally, shifting his hands so that his arms just drape easily over Porthos shoulders. He smiles at him, smirks really, and tilts his head, watching the way the light dims from the room, a flickering candle on the bedside table playing off the curve of Porthos’ cheek. 

Porthos just rolls his eyes, looks exasperated but resigned to conversation. Aramis leans up and kisses jaw and neck and sucks a bruise into his shoulder, watching the way Porthos physically holds himself back, marvels at the way his hips tremble beneath his clenching thighs. 

He pulls back to lift an eyebrow at him. “You _can_ move if you’d like, my friend. Don’t hold back on my account.” 

“You’re tight,” Porthos says by way of explanation but he’s moving again anyway and Aramis stutters out a contented sigh when his prostate throws a magnificent fit from the deep strokes Porthos uses after that, pushing into him. 

“It’s been a while,” Aramis says and shrugs his shoulders, pulling his arms back away from Porthos to arch over his head, grasping at the iron bars of his headboard for better purchase so he can move back against Porthos with practiced ease. “Not _so_ long, really, but perhaps I should have taken you tonight?” 

“Should I stop?” Porthos mumbles, too far gone to be able to tell whether Aramis is joking or not, but not so far gone that his words aren’t stained with concern – and Aramis knows that if he asked him, he would stop in a moment, no matter how badly he wanted to keep moving.

Aramis shakes his head quickly, back bowing as he lifts his hips without any conscious effort, letting Porthos drive into him. He relinquishes that control to Porthos, knows that, underneath it all, Porthos needs that certain control, that _freedom_. This is no sacrifice for Aramis, especially when Porthos finally, _finally_ slides into that sweet, steady rhythm that they both like. 

“Didn’t mean to frighten you _again_ ,” Porthos says and Aramis blinks up at him and there, too, is the familiar flicker of amusement that lights up Porthos’ eyes, and a moment later he’s grinning at him.

And Aramis hadn’t realized how relieved he’d be to see that teasing smile again until it’s there before him, and he laughs, unrestrained and pleased. 

“If you’re so used to seeing fear when bedding someone, we really should work on your bedside manner,” Aramis returns easily, laughing, his chest swelling with it as he rocks against Porthos, squeezes around him more insistently, coaxing Porthos’ into an unsteady movement before he recovers himself and the pace. 

“Seems to work for you,” Porthos rumbles, but he’s still smiling. 

“ _I’m_ rather fond of it, it’s true,” Aramis says, lifting one hand to rest it against his chest in a mock pose of scandalized virtue. “I’m hardly the bar you should set.” 

“You are a bit easy,” Porthos agrees and grins.

“You’ll make me blush, or weep,” Aramis teases back, voice fond as he smiles up at Porthos. He lifts the hand from his chest to touch at his shoulder, tug him in closer and kiss him as he moves his hips, snapping them down to meet Porthos, to remind him to keep moving again. He moans out appreciatively as he bites at Porthos’ bottom lip, pulling back to smirk up at him. “See, I’m practically a blushing maiden just from the insinuation.” 

Porthos snorts, just as Aramis hoped he would. 

“Come on,” Aramis says quietly, leaning up and kissing him, slow and sloppy. “Don’t stop. Come on.” 

“I’m unsure that’s what a blushing maiden would say,” Porthos laughs.

“Come on,” Aramis breathes, grinning because he knows he’s won and because the sound of his laughter will always set him at ease, while also making something curl tight in his chest. 

He doesn’t have to tell him again, and Porthos bends down over him and moves again, the movement faster now, more haphazardly. Aramis doesn’t mind, just grasps at him. Takes his hand, threads their fingers together so he can kiss the heel of his palm, a moment of sentiment seizing him and refusing to let go, feeling raw as he arches up against Porthos, legs tightening around his hips. 

“Come on,” he whispers, just to spur him on, and he drags his other arm to curl tight around his neck, keeping him close, pressing his forehead against Porthos’, closing his eyes and chanting the two words over and over, his breath hitching as he gets close to his release, feels Porthos everywhere around him, against him, in him. 

It’s only a few strokes more, and the heavy, callused hand against his cock, before he’s arching up and coming with a low, pleased moan, body tensing up. When he opens his eyes, bleary and sated, he blinks up at Porthos, who moves over him, sweat at his brow, and Aramis nods. 

“Come on,” he says one last time and Porthos jerks up into him and comes, filling him. He closes his eyes, tightening his body around Porthos and holding him close as Porthos moves, waiting until he comes down to seek his mouth for a slow, pleased kiss. 

Porthos strokes into him a few more times, slowly, unhurried now. They stay like that, reclaiming their breath, before gradually Porthos pulls back and away, rolling onto his back. Aramis hums, even as he feels the loss, and the room is dark now save for the candlelight. He sighs out and rolls onto his side, tucking into Porthos’ side and smiling at him, a touch wicked. 

“Good?” he asks, dropping a hand to trace at Porthos’ chest absently. 

Porthos rumbles, eyes closed. 

“How do you feel?” he asks, quietly, smoothing a hand down his chest, ducking his head to nuzzle against his cheek affectionately. 

Porthos mumbles absently, his voice a rumbling wave at the base of his throat. 

“Talk to me,” Aramis whispers, brushing a kiss over his ear.

“Can’t,” Porthos sighs, eyes closed. 

Aramis chuckles. “I will take that for the compliment it undoubtedly is.” 

“Hm,” Porthos agrees, and turns a little so Aramis can get his hand at his back, touch at the stitched wound there – since even in his half-sleepy state, he can tell what it is that Aramis is after. 

The thing about Porthos is that, after sex, he becomes a bit of a lump – it’s endearing, and Aramis likes it, but lump is really the best way to describe him. So he tucks in next to him quite happily, pleased that he seems to be in better, higher spirits than before. He touches at his back to make sure the stitches weren’t torn, and then goes back to pressing quiet, affectionate kisses over Porthos’ shoulder, neck, and jaw, smiling around the scratch of his beard and the evening shadow ghosting down his neck. 

There was something to be said about the afterglow. He nuzzles against him absently, not minding that Porthos is dozing or just lying there or completely pliant – because it’s rather endearing, and he’s radiating contentment in waves that Aramis delights in, knows he’s the source of – and worth the twinge of an ache as he shifts, dragging one leg to splay it across Porthos’ legs, pressing up against his hip and resting his chin on his shoulder, smiling up at him.

Porthos turns his head to meet his gaze, blinking his eyes open and humming out a small questioning sound. Aramis shakes his head, “Nothing,” he says and nuzzles in closer, “Just looking at you.” 

“Hm,” Porthos hums, closing his eyes again, lips quirked and threatening a smile. 

Aramis laughs, softly, stroking his hand down Porthos’ chest again, dragging his fingers absently to trace over the scars there, following the curve of muscle, the soft line of ribs underneath skin. He focuses on the scars – he always does – following the jagged curve of one over his stomach, slides down to touch at a feather-light scar that glances off his hip. There’s the one over his heart, the one that he always lingers on, despite himself, touching at the soft line of it, feels the way Porthos shifts under him, the way his lungs fill with air, the way his heart thuds out softly. He smiles, warm and content. 

“You just want to go again,” Porthos rumbles out as Aramis continues to touch him. 

Aramis laughs, a sharp, surprised bark and shakes his head, brushing a kiss over his shoulder. “I’m insatiable but even I need a minute to recover.” 

“You’re definitely that,” Porthos agrees, and he’s smiling now, too.

Aramis is glad to see it, after so many minutes spent the last few days with his customary frown. When Porthos smiles, it really does light up his whole face. He shivers a little, the night air coming through the open window and chilling him now that the sweat is cooling on his body. He shifts closer to Porthos, rocking up so that he’s sprawled out above him, straddling him absently, pressing chest to chest. 

Porthos blinks his eyes open, shifts to tuck one arm behind his head as he lifts his eyebrows, looking at Aramis with the obvious question in his eyes. 

“Just admiring,” Aramis says with a shrug and chuckles. 

“You don’t have to flatter me,” Porthos jokes back, laughing, “I’m already in your bed.”

“That you are, indeed,” Aramis says, laughing, too, and lifting his hands to brush over Porthos’ face, touching at his jaw and swiping his thumbs over his cheekbones, then slides his fingers back to brush at his hair, letting his fingers circle over his scalp gently. “Perhaps this is just a means to keep you here.” He tilts his head in mock thought for a moment and then adds, “Although you’re so tired after sex, I suppose I don’t have to bother – you’ll be here until morning regardless of what I do.” 

Porthos shrugs, but closes his eyes at the touch to his scalp, sighing out. Aramis feels the rise and fall of his chest beneath his own and grins.

“Am I too heavy?” 

“Not really,” Porthos says and Aramis’ smile softens now that Porthos’ eyes are closed, leaning down and kissing his forehead, then shifting to kiss down the length of the scar that cuts across his eye. Porthos sighs. 

They stay like that for a long while, Aramis just pressing slow, gentle kisses over his face and down across his neck, paying close attention to any scars he encounters. 

After a long while, long after the night has progressed and the moon is rising, Porthos turns a little and bumps his nose against Aramis’ jaw, lips brushing over his ear. 

“Again?” Porthos grumbles in that deep, gravelly voice.

Aramis grins. “I like the way you think, my friend.”


End file.
